Not a Crowd
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: If Sherlock Holmes thought that his best friend's marriage was a gateway into singularity again, then sorely mistaken was the genius detective. [Platonic Johnlockary fluff.]


**Not a Crowd**

If Sherlock Holmes thought that his best friend's marriage was a gateway into singularity again, then sorely mistaken was the genius detective.

In fact, never before had Sherlock so many shared dinners, impromptu sleepovers, or heated rows over crap television.

It wasn't always his fault. Rarely did he think it was, to be honest, but sometimes he knew that he prompted the familial gatherings without even trying. He didn't mean to show up right as John and Mary sat down to dinner, but he had never been good with keeping time, especially if he had a case or an experiment on.

On such occasions, Sherlock would unknowingly walk right into a danger zone; he wouldn't be able to get out of flat until he had relented to shovelling mouthfuls of dinner into his mouth to placate both John _and_ Mary. He couldn't complain, because both John and Mary were far better cooks than he gave them credit for, but at the same time... a large dinner made him so _sleepy_.

He would, invariably, end up on the sofa. Taking into consideration strategy and level of comfort, John and Mary's sofa wasn't _technically_ a three-seater, but it worked in a pinch. Mary at one end, John curled up next to her, with Sherlock draped over the available space. More often he would end up with his shoulder braced against John, or his feet stretched out over both of the Watson's laps, or half asleep with his head propped on John's shoulder or John's thigh. John would, invariably (naturally), complain mightily, but Sherlock had once fallen asleep there to awaken in the middle of the night, his head still cushioned on John's leg, while John's head was propped up on Mary's shoulder and Mary's head was propped up on her own hand, both of them asleep, too. The bemoaning that had come in the morning from stiff necks and aching backs had been spectacular.

Or he'd end up laid out in bed in the guest room, tangled in the blankets, subject to the Watsons leaving him a note on the guest bathroom mirror: _Breaky in fridge, gone to work J&amp;M_ He'd always make sure that he was gone by the time that they got off shift, but sometimes he'd take to the promise of the breakfast and a shower before letting himself out.

What Sherlock had _not_ realised was that, in getting married, John wasn't creating that shortcut back to Sherlock's singularity; he was creating another endless circuit of companionship for him to get caught up in.

No longer was it only John saying that he needed to get out of the flat and away from his experiments, it was Mary as well. And, as such, Sherlock found himself with John's hand on his shoulder and Mary's arm linked with his, practically being dragged out from his own flat. The fact that it was John and it was Mary didn't stop him from behaving in the usual way, rather than taking it lying down, and, if he had something that he found particularly pressing on, he would be told, brusquely, _oi, don't talk to her that way, Sherlock!_ while Mary chuckled at his side.

He'd end up out of the flat anyway.

Sometimes, he really hated that they ganged up on him.

But then they would end up at the embankment while the sun dipped down into dark and rosy tones, while the warmth crept down Sherlock's spine and the night air blew in to rustle his hair, and a part of him writhed with anticipation for the transition to occur; sun into moon, light into dark, the tranquillity between the two. He always ended up a step away from John and Mary as his friends held hands, clearly in the throes of disgustingly romantic _romance_, but he never experienced the feeling of being alone.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looks up, the question posed by his eyes as he silently inquires on John saying his name.

"Are you coming or what?"

"He's gone into his mind palace," Mary whispers, loud for effect, and Sherlock smiles even though he knows the bait is set just for him.

"Of course I am; did you think I'm going to stand here all night?"

"Debatable with you, mate." John shakes his head and turns.

Sherlock shares an eye roll with Mary and lengthens his stride to catch up.

They're all laughing as they pile into a cab - he'd nearly managed to take out a man skateboarding without even meaning to; it was hardly his fault that the idiot had blew past them on the corner - and Sherlock doesn't miss the glance that it earns them from the cabbie. He analyses it, ponders it, and then deletes it in the process of a few seconds, pulling the cab door closed. It must be another one of those... assumption thingies. He doesn't have time for those.

"Two twenty one Baker Street," he says out loud, just as John says his own address and Mary inquires about going to a pub.

Sherlock tilts his head in a fixed comical slant, looking at both of them. "We can't be at three places at once."

He says it out loud, but he has a feeling that they'll end up at all three places before the night is over. Three may well be rumoured to be a crowd, and yet, Sherlock has found that is not. Mostly, he amends, as John and Mary have settled on their flat first to drop off their shopping and have now leaned in to kiss each other.

Mostly, as both John and Mary snicker at his sour expression and Sherlock turns away to the window, his reflection smiling back at him softly.

* * *

**I'm a sucker for Johnlockary platonic fluff. ^^' That's about all.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading!**


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